


through a passive landscape

by Mizzy



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Comfort/Angst, Comic Book Science, Comic Book Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Secret Identity, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24472633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: The New York Times once described parking structures as "the grim afterthought of American design" and Steve couldn’t say he disagreed. The building they were searching was pretty damn ugly. But something uglier was about to happen inside.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 70
Kudos: 372
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2020





	through a passive landscape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oluka (lomku)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lomku/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[Art] cap-im RBB 2020: Team Liberty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473539) by [oluka (lomku)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lomku/pseuds/oluka). 



> Thank you to spiritedladylace and nigmuff for the beta, and sparkle for the alpha read. Thanks to Oluka for being incredible and this fic's biggest cheerleader, which I needed because this fic is way out of my comfort zone. Even though it is volume 1 identity porn. Thanks also to the IMBB Thursday Squad, athletiger, and ishipallthings for the constant support and cheerleading while writing this. :)
> 
> The art by oluka that inspired this fic is embedded in the art but can be found here [on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473539/chapters/59067319#workskin) and [on Tumblr](https://oluka.tumblr.com/post/619646689823834112/my-second-submission-for-the-captain-americairon), please go shower them in lots of love! :)

_Fact is, the world is full of things trying to kill you._  
Richard Siken, Hansel.

The New York Times once described parking structures as "the grim afterthought of American design" and Steve couldn’t say he disagreed. He understood the concept of utility and need, but surely a little aesthetic thought wasn’t too much to ask? But no, instead, the Avengers were currently being forced to sweep every single level of the ugliest enclosed parking garage Steve had encountered yet in this decade.

There was something oppressive about the homogeneous gray space. It wasn’t just the uniformity and the low ceilings; everything screamed carefully curated artifice. Even the air was stiff, false somehow. When Steve voiced that thought, Iron Man cheerfully rambled on about how mechanical ventilation provided a fresh airflow, which in normal conditions, would disperse all the car exhaust fumes.

Then Steve made the mistake of asking about _abnormal_ conditions, which in hindsight was a mistake. It was the tactical equivalent of saying “hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”, which as everyone knew was the magical phrase that would invite disaster into your day.

Iron Man didn’t even falter, explaining about how, in the event of a fire, the ventilation would serve to cycle out the hot gas and smoke, which would give people a fighting chance of escaping this morose insult to architecture. That was Steve’s assessment of the building, not Iron Man’s, because Iron Man saw the world differently from most people that Steve had ever met. Iron Man didn’t see beauty in normal things; he saw elegance in invention, in the indomitable human spirit, and in the human capacity to take nature’s building blocks and assemble them into a new and better shape.

Steve was always impressed by people like Iron Man, and Iron Man’s benefactor Tony Stark was even more of the same. Both of them had a shiny exterior you had to look past to see the earnest and passionate person below. Steve was a dreamer like both of them. As a child he’d always dreamed of a better future—one that he could actively do his part for—but his dreams were fanciful leaps that blurred over the journey to land at the destination. He knew what he wanted, but the path to take him there was cloudy, and impossible to see. Men like Tony Stark were dreamers too, but Stark was special. He could see all the steps to _take_ someone to their dream, and then a thousand steps beyond—looking past Steve’s bright ideas of happiness into some far-off vision that Steve couldn’t even imagine.

Scientists just like Tony Stark had been the ones to turn Steve from a brittle, lanky beanpole into a form Steve barely recognized when he looked in the mirror every morning. He was grateful for the transformation—often overwhelmed by the gift of it—but whenever he got dressed, and had to tug clothing over the unfamiliar bulges of muscle, he felt like he was dressing a stranger.

Steve could still see a hint of his mother’s kindness in his eyes when he looked at his own reflection; he could see a little of the way his father’s hair had swept over his forehead. It was enough to remind him of who was really inhabiting this fast and strong body. He assumed, one day, he would settle into his strength and it would feel like slipping on a pair of perfectly worn shoes, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Iron Man seemed to be enjoying himself anyway. Something about the hideously thick concrete walls blocked some of his scanners, so he had been muttering to himself since the moment their prey had entered the structure; apparently he was sketching out improvements to his suit under his breath.

When they first met, Steve had initially assumed Iron Man was just hired muscle, maybe a veteran of some kind. An ex-soldier would be the right kind of crazy to hurl themselves at villains dressed only in an—admittedly miraculous—metal tin can. But, as time went on, it was becoming more clear that Iron Man was a _different_ kind of crazy.

Steve had heard of scientists like that. Ones who would experiment on themselves; ones that would cheerfully face insane odds in the name of progress. Iron Man’s pilot was one such man. In literature, it didn’t always go well for the mad, self-practicing scientist, but Iron Man seemed to have bucked that trend. Or, at least, if a Mr. Hyde lurked somewhere behind that shiny exterior, Iron Man was keeping him firmly out of sight.

"This floor’s clear," Iron Man said, because he still wasn’t too distracted by his admiration of the mechanical ventilation—or his mumbled hopes for Tony Stark’s next iteration of the armor—to stay on top of the reason why they were in this ugly building to begin with.

"Moving up," Steve added, matching Iron Man’s increased pace as they headed for the ramp.

An identical floor awaited them, and Steve could already picture it: a low ominous ceiling; vertical pillars uniformly spread out; horizontal bars around parts of the dull gray walls; painted parking spots on the concrete floor; red doors that led to the staircase that Clint and Simon were scouring; an emergency phone that in better times connected straight to security on the first floor. Wanda had insisted the company evacuate and lock up the garage and had sent the two security guards on duty home as soon as they saw the villain escape into it. The guards were obviously paid too little to even hesitate at the sight of an Avenger encouraging them to flee.

This part was the only interesting part of this chase—the five seconds when it felt possible that the villain was hiding on the next floor. Steve could feel the excitement of it, the exact moment when the chase would really begin in earnest. Perhaps he would see a shadow out of place, or the edge of a weapon. They’d already chased their quarry down five blocks and through three large office complexes. They were slippery, and inordinately fond of hiding. Steve had found their hiding spot twice so far, when Iron Man’s scanners had failed him (resulting in a few more technical mutters in response, of course.) Once it had been an errant shoelace; another time, the tip of their nose had been visible around a door.

They’d gotten close, and each time, their mark had let off a small explosive device and slipped away in the chaos.

They weren’t getting away, not this time. Not with Clint and Simon in the staircase, and Wanda and Vision coming from the top, and Steve and Iron Man sweeping up from the ground. They _had_ to be closing in on them now. Steve felt a brief rush of anticipation as they headed on to the next floor. This might be a horrendous piece of architecture with no redeemable visual design attributes to its credit, but it did make for a perfect bottleneck.

Which would have been great, had their intended target been the one to actually be caught in it.

* * *

Steve would like to say he knew exactly what had happened, but life as an Avengers wasn’t neat and tidy like that. Sometimes it asked you to complete a jigsaw puzzle without the picture to use as a guide and with several key pieces missing. He was used to recreating clues and timelines on the fly, and that was what he was having to do now, very quickly, because the world as it was didn’t make any sense.

The world right now was noise and pain and blurry lines of gray and a whistling noise in the back of his skull that was so high-pitched it made his vision blur.

A set of memories flickered across his mind like a flash of lightning had stutteringly lit up a series of blurry photo stills. He remembered edging carefully to the next floor, shield outstretched. Nothing but gray walls again, thick pillars, that dreadfully joy-sapping design. Then—something had happened. What was it? The photos in his mind cut out, leaving him with just the terrible reality of the aftermath.

Steve was lying on the ground. They were in some sort of _tomb_ of gray—Steve immediately regretted thinking the word tomb because it felt defeatist, but was it wrong? There was gray debris, collapsed walls of concrete around them as far as the eye could see. He _could_ see. Steve supposed that should be considered a positive thing, except part of him wished he _couldn't_ see what was right in front of him.

Or above him, as it were.

Iron Man was suspended above him. Sheltering Steve. _Shielding_ him with his body and that incredible armor. He was stuck, unmoving. Oh, god, Iron Man wasn't _moving,_ and he was impaled on two long metal pipes that looked like they'd come loose from the walls from—had there been an explosion?

Yes. An explosion.

Iron Man had come towards him? And there'd been noise, and pain, and—oh. Steve was impaled, too, on one of the same pipes that was cleanly buried through Iron Man's body. They were skewered together. That was...interesting. Interesting. That's what Steve's art teacher had said when Steve had brought terrible art to class. If interesting had meant terrible this entire time, Steve was on board with it.

Iron Man wasn't moving. But was it because the pipes had pinned him, or because he couldn't move because he was—oh god please let him not be—

"I'm okay," Iron Man said. Wheezed, maybe, from the rush of white noise that came with those two words.

Okay? _Okay?_ Iron Man had two metal poles _embedded in his body_ , how was that _okay?_ Steve wanted to say they’d been in worse situations before, but the words gummed up in his throat, like a lie. Had they been in a worse situation than this one? The walls were impenetrable. The parking structure had forty stories above them. Who knew how much rubble there was to sift through to find them? Vision would be okay, if he hadn’t been caught by surprise, and Wanda’s magic might have protected them, but nothing was guaranteed. Staircases were often secure, so maybe Clint and Simon were okay. And Steve was hurt, yes, but it was not even the first time Steve had been pinioned by something like this; he was fairly sure he’d been impaled in almost the exact same spot before.

But Iron Man… It was worse for him. He had that marvelous armor, of course, but the pipes had clearly crushed right through the metal and there was blood everywhere. It was bad. It was _really_ bad.

Iron Man was covering him. Like he'd pushed Steve out of the way. Steve had been skewered like this once before, but as long as they were found quickly, all Steve could expect to suffer was a world of pain and a longer recovery time than he’d prefer. Thanks to the serum’s enhanced healing factor, being impaled by a metal pole wasn’t the likely death sentence it could be. Steve’s eyes stung. Not as a consequence of his own injury, but because Iron Man hadn’t been so lucky.

From the amount of blood, Steve couldn’t even hope that it had just hit the armor and not the pilot inside the suit. He forced himself to look closer; to take in the details. Part of the red-and-gold armor was peeled back around one of the wounds and Steve could barely bring himself to look at it. The broken metal pipe extended straight through that wound, through and through, ragged flash surrounding it like a nightmarish flower. There was certainly a lot of blood coming from it. Too much. Steve’s brain was already flooding with facts. It would only take losing a liter and a half of blood for Iron Man to be in real trouble.

"We're in mortal peril," Iron Man said. "It must be a Tuesday."

Steve would laugh, if it didn’t hurt. As it was, his body made a kind of involuntary spasm, which made his mouth flood with an unpleasant metallic taste.

Iron Man _had_ saved him. That’s how they were in this mess, Steve realized, as the imaginary photo stills of memory finally lined up into an almost complete storyboard in Steve’s mind. They'd caught sight of their target; he’d had a larger device this time, and Steve raised his shield to attack. But Iron Man had detected something on his monitors, and the last thing Steve remembered after throwing his shield was the bright lights of an explosion, and Iron Man flying at him, and knocking him backwards, throwing them both out of the range of the blast.

But the parking structure crumbled around them, and they were—they were trapped. The pain was blinding and Steve’s ears were filled with an agonizing whine. and Steve must have blacked out for a spell, which… probably wasn't a good sign for him, either.

"Comms are out," Iron Man sighed. "Sorry."

"Is it stupid to ask how you are?" Steve finally found his voice.

Iron Man made a sharp noise of inhalation. "Probably."

Well. That was a fair response. Steve carefully took a breath and tried to see how much movement he had, pinned underneath Iron Man like this, but his first cautious movement made it very clear that he couldn't move without jostling the pipe impaled into him, the one which was also jammed through Iron Man’s body, too. Steve’s body could maybe take more injury. Iron Man’s… probably couldn’t.

Taking as even a breath as he could manage, Steve finished glancing around. The explosion he barely recalled had caught them both in an enclosed pocket of fallen debris. There was that terrible, torturous gray in every visible direction. There was still air—at least there was that—maybe Iron Man had made a decent point earlier about the wondrous air system in this terribly ugly building. There was an intact vent to Steve’s left, and it was clearly intact enough to be functioning for the moment. They wouldn’t suffocate to death, then.

But, Iron Man might bleed to death if they weren’t found soon.

If Steve had been alone, he’d have snapped the metal pipe in two and taken his chances. With Iron Man so hurt, Steve couldn’t take that risk. To Steve’s chagrin, they really would have to rely on their team, and bank on the fact that the explosion hadn’t taken them out too.

Staircases were strong in places like this one. Steve had seen buildings like this half-devastated by earthquakes and explosions, and the staircases were often the part that best survived best, so Clint and Simon were probably okay. Clint was only human, but Simon was strong enough to help dig he and Tony out of the rubble. Wanda and Vision would also have no trouble getting them out, with Vision’s ability to travel through walls and Wanda’s magic, but they were several floors above when the explosion happened. They could be caught up in this. _They could be dead,_ Steve’s brain whispered, and he hated everything.

Focusing on hypotheticals was a bad idea. Steve had to be present and mindful on the _now._ The aim was to survive as long as possible; to survive until help could come. The chase had been on the news. The Fantastic Four sometimes came as backup, even when they weren’t specifically asked, but especially if something had gone terribly wrong.

Practical things. Not hypothesizing or catastrophizing.

Steve could see how badly Iron Man was injured. How?

"There’s light and air still," Steve said. Iron Man would be able to realize it was a question.

"Remember what I told you earlier about the systems here having backup generators for every floor?” Iron Man asked.

Steve thought about it as he wheezed through another breath. He remembered how impressed Iron Man had sounded. "They’re all self-contained."

Iron Man made a soft murmur of agreement. “So, we’ll be completely fine."

"You’re bleeding pretty badly," Steve said, softly. Because maybe Iron Man wasn’t aware of how bad it was.

The protracted silence from Iron Man disproved that assumption immediately. "As long as help gets here soon, I’ll be fine," Iron Man said, after that pause.

Steve was halfway to reassured before the words fully hit him. He stared up at Iron Man’s mask, hating how he could see his own grimace reflected in the metal. "And what’s your definition of _soon_?"

"Probably longer than you’re dreading, but not as long as I would prefer," Iron Man admitted.

"Are your displays working? Can they tell us anything that’s going on?"

"If anything, they’re more borked than they were," Iron Man muttered. "But...you can try and breathe a little easier, if that pole hasn’t punctured a lung—I can read my own stats at the moment. I am, however improbably, not doing as bad as I look."

"Unless your sensors are damaged."

"Well. Yes."

"Because you’re losing a lot of blood."

"So are you.”

Steve deliberately ignored him. "And your heart rate is up in the 120s."

"How did you—" Iron Man started and then wheezed, and more quietly added, "Damn."

Steve smiled grimly, feeling zero amusement. Sometimes you just had to trick your fellow Avengers into admitting they were hurt.

"You’re in shock," Steve said, slowly. "It’s okay. Me too."

Iron Man made a disgruntled noise again, accompanied by a choking noise that made Steve feel colder. That was never his favorite sensation in life.

"Do you feel nauseous yet?”

"Nauseated," Iron Man corrected. "I’m old-fashioned like that. Nauseated is _supposed_ to mean you feel sick. Nauseous means you make _others_ feel sick—at least, that’s what the last amendment of the dictionary said. They’re always flipping that damn definition.”

“So why are you insisting _you’re_ correct when even the dictionary isn’t sure.”

“I’m whimsical like that. And I prefer it that way around.”

“Noted. I’m just glad you’re still coherent enough to make an argument out of it. I should probably count that as a good thing."

"And yeah," Iron Man added, in a low reluctant rumble of voice, "nauseated works."

The circulation to Iron Man’s stomach had been cut, then. Steve had to fight to keep his breathing even. Iron Man was probably clammy under the armor, and adrenaline would be keeping Iron Man’s heart rate up. It was when it dropped that it would be a problem, because that would mean low blood pressure. It also meant that he’d probably lost around three quarters of a liter of blood already. Damn it.

Steve stared up at Iron Man wordlessly for a moment. His blood pressure should still be high for now from all that vasoconstriction, his body trying to squeeze shut some blood vessels, to clamp off the bleeding from within. He had to keep Iron Man calm. That was the best thing to do in this situation. Talking might be a good distraction. Talking also kind of hurt, but that didn’t matter; Steve would do anything for Iron Man, any time.

"You should tell me who you are," Steve blurted.

Iron Man chuckled, which was immediately followed by a low hissing noise; he obviously regretted making that response. "Opportunistic of you, Captain."

Steve felt a small rush of shame. It was a logical notion, but he couldn’t deny there was a selfish streak to the request. He wanted to know. It was like an itch in his chest that had been growing for months, ever since the day they met. Since the moment Steve had woken up to the sights of his own frantic face as a smear of a reflection in a golden mask.

"It’s practical," Steve insisted, pushing past the shame. "We will be found soon. But you’re hurt. And hurt bad. You can’t just go to Tony Stark and have him patch you up in his basement—"

"His basement? _That’s_ a leap."

"No. It’s a deduction. I’ve seen how slowly you recover from some hits. You get bashed up in that tin can of yours. Has to be hell on the human beneath the armor. You always disappear into the mansion after a mission, and I’ve been on every floor of the mansion but the third sub-basement, where you’ve said he stores the submarine. So, unless Mr. Stark has a hospital somehow squeezed into the space—"

"He could."

Steve had paced the full length of both the submarine and the mansion. He knew how big the third sub-basement could be. He also knew there was a slight chance that Iron Man was right; if anyone could stash a mini-hospital into a slither of real estate, it would be Tony Stark.

Steve raised an eyebrow. " _Does_ he?"

Iron Man paused. The silence was incriminating.

"They’ll have to take the armor from you at the hospital." Steve kept his voice as level as he could. It was a Herculean effort, and he wasn’t that successful. "They’ll see who you are, and I’ll need to inform your loved ones where you are."

"You won’t."

Steve couldn’t raise his eyebrow any higher. He tried regardless. "I appreciate optimism in a scenario like this, but—"

"Oh, I’m well aware of how screwed I am, Cap,” Iron Man’s voice hitched awkwardly midway, but he didn’t balk from finishing the sentence. "I mean, there’s no one to tell."

"Of course there is,” Steve blinked up at Iron Man. "You _must_ have family. A partner, a friend—"

"I must," Iron Man said.

Steve thought it was acquiescence, him realizing that Steve had a point. But then Steve ran the two words through his mind again and his stomach sank. Iron Man had emphasized the word _must_. It was sarcasm. Steve’s brain could not compute it. It didn’t make any sense. Iron Man was—he was incredible. He was _amazing._ He was so brave, day after day, so courageous, so inspirationally innovative and _strong._ There was no way he couldn’t—he couldn’t have a fucking _legion_ of people behind him, loving him, being so proud to know him; to call him one of their own.

Iron Man was in shock. Decompensated shock, by now, but shock nonetheless. His respiratory rate had noisily and noticeably been increasing in pace, as much as Steve didn’t want to think about it. Had his condition deteriorated to the point that he was already descending into delirium? It was too soon for that, Steve thought, desperately. It was all too soon.

"Jarvis, I suppose," Iron Man said, after a moment. "He’s sort of family, in a way."

"Edwin Jarvis," Steve said, numbly. "Tony Stark’s butler?"

"Yeah. He. He’ll probably be mad at me for getting injured. You know what it’s like."

Steve stared at him, his own heart rate lurching upward in pace, more out of stress than from his own substantial injury. "He’s your _only_ family?"

"Of a sort." Iron Man made a noise that Steve thought was a regretful smile.

"He can’t be all you have in life," Steve reiterated, because it didn’t make a lick of sense. Iron Man deserved more than all of them combined, and the only family member he had left in the world was Tony Stark’s _butler_?

"I assure you, he is." Iron Man paused. "You and the Avengers are the closest thing to a family I’ve had in years. It’s been an adjustment. I’m not used to it, you see."

"I don’t follow."

" _Caring._ For other people. That aren’t in my—well—that’s another matter, that’s a different kind of care anyway, I’m _responsible_ for them. And the Avengers can look after themselves, they don’t need my assistance—"

"You’re not making much sense, Shell-Head.”

Iron Man creaked out a noise. "Well, I suppose I’m not." He exhaled noisily. "You know the real problem with this building?″

″It's ugly as sin?″

″Hard ‘agree to disagree’ on _that_ one. No, it's the recycled air units. They keep the temperature in here too damn cold.″

"You’re cold," Steve said, slowly. Shit. Cold wasn’t good. Cold really wasn’t good. Cold meant Iron Man’s body was putting all its blood-flow to his core. His blood pressure would be dropping, too. Hypothermia was becoming a real risk. Iron Man was losing too much blood. One of the pipes looked like it had gone more cleanly through him, as there wasn’t too much blood leaking from that wound. But the flower one, the _terrible_ one… Steve’s abdomen had a warm pool of Iron Man’s blood on it now from that injury.

Steve moved his arm slowly, carefully, making sure not to jostle him. If he could peel up his uniform, tug out some of his undershirt, he could pack some of the cloth into Iron Man’s wound. It would hopefully slow the bleeding. He was reluctant, because wound-packing hurt like _hell,_ but pain was preferable to death, surely?

"What are you doing?" Iron Man asked, his voice rattling.

"I need to pack that more open wound of yours, or you’ll bleed out on me before help gets here," Steve said. "Stay still. I’m gonna try and pull as much material from my under-suit as I can without widening your injury—" he smirked, "unless you have a first aid kit hidden in that suit of yours?”

"Not one we can reach without killing one of us," Iron Man admitted. "But..." He trailed off.

Steve’s eyes widened. He’d mocked the word in the past— it was too close to the word _butt._ He might never laugh at it again. _But_ was a beautiful word. "But?" he repeated, hope making his own pain recede a little into the background.

"I may have something. You might be able to reach it. But—" Iron Man made a disgruntled noise again. "You’d have to know who I am."

Steve stared at him. "So you’d rather die than have me know your _name?_ " That was insane. Iron Man was mad. There was no secret worth someone’s _life._

"I know it sounds crazy. But it’s how I feel."

"I don’t want to have learned your name only after your _corpse_ has been revealed!" Breathing had been hard enough before, but now Steve felt like one of the pillars had fallen on his chest, too; pushing down, squeezing him in a cold, awful, strangling embrace. "I know we’ll maybe get out of here, but... we have to be realistic, there’s a risk we might not."

" _I_ might not," Iron Man said, quietly, and Steve’s heart broke all over again. If he could physically yank the serum out of himself and give his precious healing factor to Iron Man, he would. _Oh,_ how quickly he would. Iron Man deserved it all.

"And we can lower that risk by at least _trying_ to reduce how much blood you’re losing."

Iron Man was quiet.

"I _hate_ this," Steve said, heartfelt, bitterly.

"I can’t say I’m a fan," Iron Man said, weakly.

"But I _hate_ it." Perhaps Steve could be more coherent about this, but he was cold, and in pain. He may be dying too, but Iron Man was dying above him _faster._ If you couldn’t be emotional in a moment like this one, then when could you? _"_ I hate the idea that I might only get to know who you are from your gravestone. Or a...a toe tag! Even the idea of having to admit to hospital doctors that I have no idea who you are—this is—this is so unfair—you’re so amazing and you deserve the world! Not dying in a hole like this with just me; in pain _and_ _unnamed—_ "

"You already know who I am," Iron Man said, sounding baffled. "You don’t need a name to know the most important part. Out of everyone in the whole world, you already _know_ who I am. The parts that really _matter_. The best parts of me. Believe me, you already know me, Cap. If I die here, it means I died getting to do what I loved. Next to someone who knows me better than anyone ever has, or ever will. It’s not a regretful way to go."

Iron Man’s words were a hot blade, digging through Steve’s rib cage and suffusing him with heat.

"I feel the same," Steve said. "If I die here, with you, I can’t regret a moment of it."

"Then what use is a name? It’s just a few meaningless syllables."

"I just—" Steve couldn’t shrug without hurting both of them. What was the point of holding words back now? "I hate the idea of it. The idea of never getting to say your real name. I’d regret that. I’d regret… never getting to _see_ you. I would—" His chest tightened, a heavy band of agony, "I’d regret never getting the chance to kiss you."

"...what?"

It was only when Iron Man spoke that it occurred to Steve that maybe he’d gone too far. That maybe this wasn’t the place, or the time, but if imminent mortal danger wasn’t the right time, when would be? He hadn’t planned to say it, or maybe he had. It had surprised Iron Man, at least, and proven at the same time that he was relatively cognizant enough to hear what Steve was saying. If nothing else happened besides Steve horribly embarrassing himself, then there was enough good in it that he couldn’t complain.

"You heard me." Steve tensed his lower jaw. He’d said it. He wasn’t going to take it back. Not when he'd spent months, thinking about it, over and over. How brave Iron Man was. How much he just wanted, all of the time, to celebrate that bravery. The mental bargains he made with himself at night, repeatedly, about what he'd do to keep Iron Man's secret, if it meant, come the end of a winning battle, that Steve could take him somewhere private and kiss him.

Steve had thought about it so many times. He wanted to kiss him both in victory and in quiet pride of everything Iron Man stood for. He'd never said anything about it to Iron Man, but Steve knew it must have been written across his face more than once.

"It can’t be that much of a surprise how much I like you," Steve added, when Iron Man had been quiet too long for Steve’s calm.

Iron Man’s extended silence was either a sign that it _was_ a surprise, or it meant that Iron Man’s thought processes _were_ starting to muddle from the pain. But when he did finally speak, Steve could barely believe his words.

"I...like you too,” Iron Man said. “Of course I do. You’re... You’re _Steve._ How could anyone not?"

“Then, if I can’t have your name, let me at least see your face."

"It’s not that easy."

"Is the mechanism damaged?"

"No."

"Then—"

"A name, a face, an identity—it changes things. It always changes things. Things like that—come with a reputation. With _baggage._ Right now you like me because you _don’t_ really know me. You just know the _best_ parts of me. That’s who Iron Man is. Filtered, curated, _carefully packaged up_ —"

It was common for people reaching the second stage of shock to panic. To get a sense of impending doom. Was that what was going through Iron Man’s mind, as his body adjusted to the first wave of shock? Was delirium setting in? Iron Man was _clever,_ so clever. That quickness of his mind was one of the _so many things_ that Steve liked about him. Sometimes, when Iron Man said something witty, Steve had to clench his fists and take a few deep breaths when no one was watching him. Delirious rambling from someone so smart might still sound like coherent speech. It was just one more vexation; his worries were starting to pile up. Why hadn’t anyone found them yet?

"Don’t make me _carefully package_ you into a coffin," Steve said, his voice low, stubborn.

Iron Man was silent again, for so long that Steve was about to open his mouth, to ask again, uselessly, if Iron Man was okay, and then—and then—

And then Iron Man’s faceplate opened and Steve _knew_.

Steve let out a breath that tasted metallic. He swallowed back some of the blood, trying not to pull a face at the sourness flooding his mouth. Steve _knew_ now. Or he _thought_ he knew. But Steve wasn’t sure he would let himself believe it unless he _heard_ it. Until he heard the voice he expected from the impossibly brave man directly above him who was impaled twice and bleeding profusely.

"….Tony?" Steve’s question was uttered in a ghost of his usual voice, but Tony had obviously heard him loudly enough.

"Yeah," Tony admitted, gruffly. "It’s me." Tony’s face was sweaty, pale and drawn. Steve’s pain pulsed, expanded, and rippled through his body until it felt seven times its size; it made him feel so very heavy. There was blood dripping from Tony’s mouth. The helmet was damaged too. Steve hadn’t noticed that until now. And, if the helmet was damaged, maybe Tony’s unique and precious brain could have been injured, too. And that was—that was terrible _—_ that was _impossible to think about._

"You said that—" Steve started, struggling to keep his voice even because his eyes were stinging. The truth hurt, but not in the way Tony was probably dreading. The words he had said before implied Tony was expecting _judgment,_ but all Steve felt was anguished grief, because _Tony thought he only had Edwin Jarvis in his life?_ That was—that was awful. Horrifying. "You have more than Jarvis. You have to. It doesn't make sense. You’re too—" Words were failing him. Maybe he was more hurt than he thought he was. His confusion was profound and perplexing and bewildering all at once. "You’re _Tony Stark,_ " Steve finished, feebly.

"I am." Tony’s mouth quirked to one side and he winced.

Steve stared up at him. It didn’t feel real. Tony’s face was a patchwork of shadows in the open helmet, an assembly of pieces that made painful, terrible sense as a whole. Steve had so many things he wanted to say—so many events suddenly made clear, _so_ many—but all the facts that had jammed together were making a part of Steve’s brain start to scream inside his skull because if Tony was Iron Man, if Tony had been Iron Man all along, with his heart troubles—oh, god, his _heart_ troubles—

Focus on the now, Steve reminded himself, sternly. Get through this so you _can_ panic and yell at him later.

"You said once the helmet was open we could get something that I could use to pack your wound," Steve said. All-business he could do. He was dizzy, and didn’t know if it was from the pain or the blood loss. Or maybe the dizziness was because of the sneaking thought that had crept in, that Steve really _had_ wanted to kiss Iron Man, whomever he turned out to be, and somehow this revelation hadn’t decreased that urge in the slightest.

Tony blinked once, twice, slower than Steve was happy with. "Yes. Right. Yeah. Can you move either of your hands?"

"My right one, maybe."

"Good. I need you to reach into my helmet. On the right side is a small strip of fabric. It won’t look like much, but it’ll do the job."

Steve pressed his mouth into a line. Moving was dangerous, but not moving could be worse. If he tensed his muscles carefully, he could slide his own body up the pole far enough to reach into Tony’s helmet. Tony didn’t even look scared as Steve lifted his glove slowly. Steve kept his eyes trained on the metal length that skewered them both together as he moved, trying to keep it as still as possible; he ended up moving his hand to his mouth first, biting the material of his glove so he could remove it. He needed as much flexibility with his hand as possible.

Carefully spitting the glove aside once he got it off, Steve gritted his teeth and lifted his upper body by tensing his core and leaning upward. Sliding even just that far up the pole embedded into them both was not a sensation Steve thought anyone would willingly choose to do more than once, even if it was for as good a cause as _Tony Stark._ Who was Iron Man. Steve hoped he got the chance for both of them to live long enough for him to get used to that fact. He was finding it hard to reconcile, for all that it also felt so logical. But now that Steve thought about it, there was no one else it could possibly _be._ Steve was brand new to this decade. He didn’t know anyone. Of _course_ Iron Man would have to be someone actually really famous, for him to be so firm on Steve not knowing.

Steve focused on following Tony’s instructions to retrieve the aforementioned strip of fabric. When Steve’s fingers slowly closed in on it, Steve couldn’t believe it was the right object—it felt like just a tiny piece of foil.

"That’s it," Tony said.

Steve stared dubiously at the small strip of material carefully pinched between his fingers. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore and had to let himself drop back to the ground, sliding him back down the pole an agonizingly painful four inches. He knew he hadn’t hidden his wince of pain from Tony, but Tony was politely not mentioning it.

″What is it?″

″Strip of unstable molecules. Mr. Fantastic helped develop it. Just give it a shake.″

Steve carefully gave it a shake between two fingers, being careful not to jostle the pole. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but a face full of material wasn't it. He pushed the fabric away until he could see again.

Tony was smirking a little bit, like it was pretty hilarious. Steve didn't realize until he saw what it was—a full suit, jacket and pants, and there was a tie and a shirt too. Steve blinked.

″So this is how Tony Stark suavely appears in a suit moments after Iron Man disappears,″ Steve said, slowly, gripping for the shirt first, and hoping whatever magical technological process turned a tiny strip of fabric into full-sized clothing was relatively sanitary.

″I'm so good at the rapid switch from superhero to CEO that I'm thinking about starting a quick-change act in Las Vegas,″ Tony joked.

Steve couldn't bring himself to even briefly smirk at Tony's attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ″You should brace yourself. This is gonna hurt.″

Tony hummed a little. ″I'm probably going to scream.″

Steve had packed enough wounds in the war to know that, but it was good that Tony was prepared.

″You probably should,″ Steve said, and there wasn't a point in dragging this out, every second counted. With that though in mind he grimaced, pushed himself up a few inches on the pole again, and ignored the pain screaming behind his eyeballs in favor of shoving the shirt into the blooming-flower wound, pushing it into the ragged flesh.

Pushing and _pushing,_ because wounds were impossible puzzles. Wounds were shitty little hungry creatures that ate and ate and ate what you pushed into them. And Tony _was_ screaming, and Steve's brain was yelling too, his ears whistling, but he grit his teeth and kept pushing because agony was better than death.

″Shit,″ Tony said, eloquently, and Steve was only halfway through. This time Steve _did_ grin, macabre and humorless.

″Best I can do,″ Steve said when he was done, lowering himself back down with a wince. The squelching noise as he did so was not encouraging.

It understandably took a few moments for Tony to be able to talk again. Steve tried not to count the number of rapid, jagged inhales and exhales from Tony’s mouth as he waited.

″You're a terrible nurse,″ Tony finally wheezed, and maybe Steve's mouth _did_ quirk into something a little more joyful because if Tony was snarking, it meant that he was alive, and conscious, and that was good enough for now. ″I don't think I can get the faceplate back down.″

″It's too late to hide your identity _now._ ″

″I know that. I just can't see my displays anymore.″ Tony sighed. ″And that's— _shit_ —″

Steve opened his mouth to ask what _shit_ meant in this context, because shit covered a _lot_ in their current situation, but Tony's face went pale and slack, his mouth open and his whole body jolted. and Tony was wheezing then, fighting for air, and all Steve could do was stare upward and hate this whole situation with his entire being.

″What's going on? Tony? _Tony_? What the fuck's going on?″ Steve's voice pitched higher. ″Shell-Head?″

″I'm okay,″ Tony breathed, his voice crackling. He was gasping for air at an increased rate, terribly betraying his own words.

″I don't think that word means what you think it means,″ Steve said, hysterically.

″It's just a built-in suit mechanism,″ Tony said. ″It just means that if I suffer from a tension pneumothorax, the armor basically... stabs me and works to drain the fluid; lets me breathe again. It's totally _fine._ I mean. The stabbing part hurts. But I can breathe now?″

Steve stared. Maybe he was more injured than he thought. There was no way what Tony was saying made any sense. This whole thing was some sort of delirious nightmare. Maybe Steve was hallucinating. Oh, that made sense. Iron Man being Tony Stark did feel like some sort of fever dream because Steve liked Iron Man _so much,_ and Tony Stark was so impressive. Steve was probably lying unconscious under a pile of rubble. If Steve could have picked anyone in the world for Iron Man to be, maybe he would have picked Tony Stark.

Then again, Steve didn't think hallucinations were supposed to hurt this much. Steve stared upward at Tony's gaunt, tense expression. If he was hallucinating, then he'd just be a mad man gibbering to himself. If this was real, then Steve had some goddamned words to say.

″You mean,″ Steve said slowly, ″that you built something into the armor to compensate for a collapsed lung _?_ ″ Steve stared at Tony. ″That _that_ is something you deliberately anticipated happening and _prepared for?_ ″

Tony's mouth wrinkled a little. ″I'm supposed to be the _invincible_ Iron Man,″ he said, huffing the media's name for him in a wry tone. His breathing was getting raspier; he gasped between every two words. Steve felt like his own heart was in his mouth now. ″That's how you _make_ a mortal, fragile human like myself invincible. Predict what might happen and install countermeasures.″

″You predicted one day your _lung might collapse._ ″ Yes, Steve was getting stuck on that point, but he rather felt it was justified.

″Of course. I mean, the villains we go up against—“ _wheeze_ “—there's a lot I've prepared for—“ _gasp_ “—you're looking at me like I'm insane.″

″Can you _blame_ me?″

″I'm not insane.″

″That's what an insane person would say.″

″I'm saner than you.″

″ _Highly_ debatable.″

″ _You're_ the one who said you wanted to kiss me.″ Tony arched an eyebrow, still somehow able to sass Steve from the jaws of death. ″Who's the insane one here?″

Steve glared at him. Tony stared back, smug, like he'd won this weird argument. ″Wants,″ Steve muttered, after a long pause.

″Huh?″

″You said _wanted,_ ″ Steve tensed his jaw and stared at Tony, daring him to look away. ″I haven't stopped.″

At least Tony Stark could be stunned into silence.

″It doesn't have to mean anything.″ Steve's face felt hot. Well, at least that meant he had some spare blood and it wasn't all seeping out of his body. ″I mean it as a compliment. I won't—jump you, or anything, it's just—it is what it is. I'm not the kind of coward who retracts a statement just because it's awkward, or unwanted—″

″Not unwanted,″ Tony said, sharply interrupting, and Steve's chest went tight again. Tony's eyes were dark and intently fixed on Steve now, staring at him like he was a complicated piece of machinery Tony couldn’t figure out how to fix. ″I just thought you'd...change your mind. Knowing who was under the armor.″

Steve stared back, wide-eyed. ″Why would that make a difference?″

″I think you're insane.″

Steve managed a smirk. ″I'm not insane.″

″That's what an insane person would say.″ A pained look crossed Tony’s face; a particularly sharp inhale causing him to wheeze more loudly.

“With all that technology in your suit, couldn’t you have at least installed a painkiller?” Steve asked, somewhat crossly.

“It’s too dangerous.” Tony attempted a smile, but it came across as a grimace. “I’m gonna need a doctor.”

“No shit.”

“And they need to know where it hurts. A painkiller inhibits that.”

“I think your current diagnosis might not be too difficult to make.”

“ _I_ think,” Tony said, slowly, in two-word bursts, “that you… changed the… subject.”

“Oh?” Steve raised both eyebrows and then, when he realized, his stomach flipped awkwardly, but that could be his own body’s vasoconstriction kicking in. He pictured his veins squeezing shut, desperately trying to divert blood flow, like there was a tiny person redirecting traffic inside him. Hm. Maybe this whole blood loss thing wasn’t working too well for him either. “Oh,” he repeated, eloquently. “I just. I’m not opposed to it.”

“Wanting to kiss me?” Tony’s eyes shuttered like he was trying to blink. Steve tried not to track the drop of sweat rolling down his nose.

“No. Yes? No.”

“Really clearing things up there, Cap.”

Steve pretended Tony’s voice wasn’t quiet and crackling. He wasn’t doing a good job of that. “I’m not opposed to _not_.”

“ _Steve._ ”

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Kiss you. Right now.” Steve stared at Tony. There wasn’t much else to stare at, other than the blood or the gray walls or his own eyelids. “Can I? I should insist that we not. I should say we should wait, so we have something to live for.” Everything felt cold. Oh, how Steve hated that. “But I don’t want to wait. If it’s… not unwanted. If it’s—” Our last chance, Steve swallowed back, just in time, but Tony’s expression shifted like he’d heard those words anyway.

“Yes,” Tony said, and quieter, “ _please_.”

Steve knew there wasn’t a moment on this planet where he’d ever be able to ignore Tony Stark saying please. He knew it would hurt to lift himself up again, and on some level he registered that, and had to fight hard to ignore the squelching noise again as he did so.

This was not how he ever imagined ever kissing Iron Man before. He had pictured it. The details of Iron Man’s face had always escaped his imagination, but Steve had still managed to think about it, over and over. It would happen in a battle, he’d thought, both of them so full of jubilation and success that Iron Man would lift his faceplate and they’d just stare at each other, adrenaline coursing through their veins, and Steve would get to see those familiar blue eyes up close and personal as they kissed in celebration.

This kiss, as Steve carefully pressed their mouths together, was not a kiss of celebration.

This was desperation. It tasted sour. Tony’s lips were cold. Tony could die of hypothermia before either of them finished bleeding out. Steve’s eyes were stinging. This wasn’t the kiss he’d imagined. It was rough, sloppy, inexact. But it was real, and if Steve died right now, if no one found them, he might actually be okay with that.

Steve would much rather live, and Tony survive, and have them both heal so that they could have more of these kisses somewhere soft, and clean, and without pain. But if this was how it ended, in this artificial gray cocoon, then maybe Steve could die without many regrets left at all.

“Cold,” Tony said, his pretty eyes slipping shut, and Steve was glad for it, because he could grimace out his hate without Tony seeing it.

Steve hated that they were in this situation, that he couldn’t help more.

A horrible, practical voice said if Tony died, Steve could risk snapping the pole, try to dig his way out. How could his strategic mind still be ticking like that, when his active mind—the part that admired Iron Man so much—said if Tony died, Steve should just close his eyes and hope not to be found? This parking structure was as ugly as sin; functioning as a tomb would suit it far better.

Tony said something and Steve strained to piece the sounds together. “You should glue me back together.”

“I don’t have any glue,” Steve said, helplessly.

Tony sighed and opened his eyes again, just a little. “It doesn’t know it’s glue.”

Steve’s chest hurt, beyond his own injuries. Delirium. Of course. Maybe it was already too late. “Just hold on,” Steve whispered.

He thought he heard something in the distance.

“I don’t think I can.” Tony’s eyes looked glassy, unfocused. The gasping came even quicker now. “Steve, I don’t think I can.”

“Try,” Steve urged, but Tony’s eyes were already shuttering. They didn’t open again. Steve’s mouth crumpled. “It’s okay,” he said, choked up. “It’s okay if you can’t.”

Rescue might have come then, but Steve didn’t even see who it was, or how they’d found them. He was stuck staring at Tony’s lax face. He knew if he survived he’d see that image in his nightmares forever.

Someone else was speaking now. A kind hand was on his shoulder.

Wanda, Steve thought.

He thought he heard her say, “They’re both alive, but barely.”

It would be a long time before he would discover it wasn’t just wishful thinking.

* * *

“Hey, Shell-Head.”

As Steve entered the mansion kitchen, his thoughts changed from coffee to an entirely different tune. Mostly that there was something nice about the way Tony’s eyes flitted briefly to Steve’s without a hint of hesitation, and there was something comforting about the way Tony’s mouth quirked at one side when Tony saw who’d joined him in the room. It was exactly the way Steve had always imagined Iron Man responding to his presence, if he ever did get to see who was behind the mask.

Steve might not have put the frankly-kinda-obvious-in-hindsight pieces together to know the real name of his best friend in this decade, but he’d been right in that godforsaken parking structure: he _knew_ Iron Man, all the parts that mattered. Knowing his name hadn’t changed Steve’s regard for him. Well, maybe it had changed a little. Steve’s quiet level of being impressed with Iron Man and his awe of Tony Stark had combined into a weird, low, pulsing feeling that took up space in Steve’s chest every time Steve saw him. So. There was that.

“Not at work?” Steve asks, trying to ignore the quiet thump of that ever-present-Tony Stark-feeling as he crossed the floor to the cupboards to dig around for a mug.

“I,” Tony said, putting down the papers he was reading in favor of reaching for his own coffee, “in support of the severe physical injuries my bodyguard sustained during his valiant effort to protect this city, am taking a hiatus from work so my loyal employee doesn’t feel guilty that he’s unable to protect me while he recovers.”

“Oh.”

“In solidarity.”

“You are known for your abiding loyalty to your employees.”

″I like to think so,” Tony said.

Steve thought about how Iron Man had been halfway through saying so, during the incident. _″Caring._ For other people. That aren’t in my—″ Iron Man had said. He must have been about to say _that aren't in my billion-dollar company._ Constantly having to swallow back so many sentence fragments must be exhausting. It was going to take him a lot of time to process all the scheming and comments Tony Stark had made to cover up his secret identity. Steve was getting resigned to the notion that he was probably going to want to slap himself for how obvious a lot of Tony’s subterfuge had been. All the things Iron Man has said! “Oh, _sure_ , I can go fetch Tony, I’m sure he’s just a few rooms away, let me go get him.” Honestly. Steve does feel a little bit ridiculous for never seeing anything suspicious in Tony’s behavior. Hindsight could be unfair like that.

″I have to admit, I feel a little stupid for missing it,″ Steve said. Tony glanced over the top of his mug at him, eyebrows slightly raised. ″Who Iron Man really was,″ Steve finished, awkwardly. ″I feel like I should have known.″

Tony's cheeks darkened and he carefully looked away. ″I worked very hard to fool you. To fool everyone.″ Those last three words were added hurriedly. Steve liked that idea, that Tony was desperate for Steve to know he wasn't targeting him in particular. ″It's been… increasingly difficult, over the months. My intentions, particularly at the start, were good—as good as can be expected, I suppose.″

″Your heart troubles. And your company's liability.″

″And my fear.″

Steve made sure the scoffing noise that he choked out matched the level of disgust he felt. ″Your _fear?_ ″ He slipped into the chair next to Tony, putting his mug down, smiling softly when Tony unconsciously mirrored the gesture. They were so used to working in unison on the field that even these small domestic moments echoed that easy physical familiarity with each other. ″You're the bravest person I've ever met.″

″Show me a twenty-foot creature, shove me in a high-tech tin can, and I'll hurl myself at it,″ Tony said. ″One could argue that's not exactly _bravery."_

″One would be wrong, and I imagine you don't like that sensation much.″

Tony huffed an amused noise, which obviously caused him pain. He brought up a hand to his heavily bandaged ribs. The incident had been seven weeks ago now; long enough for Steve's super body to not have a single scratch on it, but not long enough for Tony to be anywhere close to fighting strength yet. It turned out that Tony had lost nearly two liters of blood before Wanda had come in and managed to hold him in stasis until they could get him to the hospital. They were so lucky Tony hadn't died.

Steve had woken up panting and disoriented more times than he cared to admit over the last few weeks, because his nightmares had taken that slim margin that had resulted in Tony's survival and crushed it. In the worst of those dreams, Steve had also been found too late, Tony's corpse lying on him, Steve choking on his blood.

″In vulnerable matters, however,″ Tony said, in a softer voice, carefully not looking Steve in the eye, ″bravery isn't my forte. However good my intentions have been, there hasn't been as much a need of carrying on the charade for _months_ now. But...when you've lied for so long, it's so easy to keep _wearing_ that lie. I was supposed to be invincible. I told myself that you all finding out I was a flesh-and-bone human might destroy that mythos. That it might shatter your faith in me on the battlefield. Especially when you found out how scared I am, all the time.″ This time Tony _did_ look Steve in the eye, his blue eyes shining with a different kind of pain. One Steve felt the echo of. It was different to the pain of being physically impaled, but it felt like being stabbed through regardless.

″I think all of us are scared all the time. I think that's what makes us human. The brave part is when you feel it and you suit up anyway.″

″I suppose so.″

Steve leaned in closer, still holding that difficult eye contact. ″I _know_ so,″ he said, fiercely. ″Are you going to tell me I'm wrong? I've heard it's unpatriotic to contradict Captain America.″

Tony laughed at that, even though it clearly caused him physical pain to do so. ″I dare say lying to Captain America probably comes with a cost, too, and I've done _that_ for years, now.″

Steve couldn't stop staring at him. There was something about the way Tony was smiling that unsettled him. That made the ever-present pulsing feeling in Steve's chest seem to gravitate to echo loudly in his ears. He swallowed nervously. ″Well, I suppose you'll have to make that up to me.″

″Yeah?″ Tony raised an eyebrow, gracefully, in a way Steve tried to pretend he wasn't supremely envious about. Sarcastic eyebrows would have served him well in many situations. ″And what are you proposing?″

There was a lightness in Tony's voice that made it evident to Steve that Tony was expecting something lighthearted in response. A charity fundraiser. Some sort of embarrassing or exhausting Avengers business; of the kind that Steve didn't like to do alone. Like fill in reams of paperwork for the city.

″When you're feeling better,″ Steve started.

″Naturally,″ Tony interjected, his mouth leaning sideways into a rakish smirk that made Steve's stomach flip a little.

Steve blamed that sensation for the way he was able to say, without stuttering, ″Buy me dinner.″

Tony's mouth was open, like he had a witty retort ready on hand, but he faltered, clearly sideswiped by Steve's demand. Maybe it was the evenness of it, or the intensity of Steve's eyes on his. Tony swallowed, his smirk falling, his eyes darkening. Steve kept staring, hoping Tony would decipher it as a serious request. A question deserving of an answer, despite the command of the delivery.

″We've just been through something incredibly dramatic,″ Tony said, slowly, and Steve frowned because that wasn't a yes. A yes or a no was all he was after. ″Delirium during that kind of blood loss is perfectly normal.″

Steve's skin cooled as realization started to sink in. From the way Tony had responded to him, he'd assumed they were in the same chapter, if not exactly on the same page. He'd been so sure that the tension which had simmered between them was genuinely reciprocated. _Not unwanted,_ Tony had said. Steve had replayed that moment in his head a thousand times. But, if Tony had been truly delirious, then none of it might have been true. Why hadn’t Steve thought about that?

It was probably because he was so desperate for it to be true. Steve was about to stutter an apology for misreading the situation, when Tony continued talking and Steve forgot how to breathe for a moment.

“I don’t hold you to _anything_ you said when we were in there,” Tony continued.

That awkward, heart-flipping feeling in Steve’s chest intensified. Tony wasn’t saying he didn’t mean what he’d said; he was giving _Steve_ the out.

“Did you mean it?” Steve shifted his chair with his ankles, scooting closer to Tony, and he looked him directly in the eye. “When you said my attention wasn’t unwanted.”

“Of _course_ I meant it,” Tony said, sounding surprised that Steve even had to ask, and it was that disbelief that made it easy, so easy, for Steve to lean forward. To put his hand carefully around Tony’s neck, to revel in how it felt for Tony to lean unconsciously into his fingers. Steve could snap Tony’s neck in an instant, they both knew that, and for him to be so pliant and trusting around Steve was a gift. Steve leaned in, telegraphing his intention with his movement; slow and deliberate. Tony’s eyes slid half-shut. Like this already felt good. Like this was already doing it for him.

This kiss was a lot better than the one in the parking structure had been. This one was warm and nothing about it hurt. Steve felt dizzy again, but this was a different kind of delirium. Tony’s mustache scratched against his skin, his hands moved to Steve’s waist, and Steve unhurriedly continued the kiss; lazy and slow and so damn _appreciative_ of every single moment of it.

When he had to pull back, Steve rested his forehead against Tony’s and enjoyed the extremities of Tony’s smile, which was all he could see of it this close. He could feel Tony’s heartbeat against his fingers. He wouldn’t take that for granted ever again.

“Was that good for you?” Tony waggled his eyebrows, and Steve felt it more than saw it.

“ _So_ much better without the blood and mortal peril.”

Tony huffed, “I’ll keep that in mind for future.” He darted in with a brief kiss, fast like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, but like he wanted to steal one anyway, while he could. ″I'm so glad I didn't die before getting to kiss you like this,″ Tony whispered.

″We weren't going to die,” Steve said. He felt like he had to protest that. He wasn’t a fan of Tony talking about his death. “It wasn't that close.″

″I think you're romanticizing the past.″

″I'll romanticize _you_ ,″ Steve said. Wait. That probably wasn't quite right. Tony's kisses had kind of melted his brain. Tony was laughing, so it was most likely _very_ wrong. Steve's lips still tingled from the kiss, so he didn't much care. ″But I refuse to accept the fact that _any_ of us would die in a building that's just _so_ damned ugly.″

Tony barked another of those rib-shocking laughs. ″You're a hazard, Rogers,″ Tony muttered, but with an undeniable fondness that just made Steve want to kiss him again. ″And you're wrong. The building wasn't ugly.″

″Can't we agree to disagree?″

Tony's brows furrowed. ″No.″

″Even though the building tried to kill us?″

″The _bomber_ tried to kill us,″ Tony corrected, pedantry too ingrained in his nature for him not to argue that point. ″The building _saved_ us. You just didn't appreciate the mechanics of it. It was beautiful. Its beauty was just hidden. Under the …. _maybe_ admittedly rough exterior.″

Steve hummed under his breath as he thought about that. Tony, who was actually Iron Man. Tony, whose own exterior was a little rougher than usual from his injuries, but underneath he was brave, and _interesting_ , and beautiful in every way that counted.

″I think I'm starting to see the appeal,″ Steve admitted.


End file.
